


Whole Numbers

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:37:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2176590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For tf-rare-pairing Ratchet/Perceptor 'make do'. I mean, what's the point in having beloved pairings if you can't SMUSH THEM ALL TOGETHER at some point?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whole Numbers

“Hey,” Brainstorm said, hands raised defensively. “He was like that when I found him.”

Ratchet frowned, moving to kneel by Perceptor’s frame, slumped half-on, half-off a workstation. “When did you find him like this?” It was Brainstorm. It was a question he had to ask.

“Oh. Uh. Two days ago.”

One day. One day Ratchet was going to throw a thermonuclear tantrum so high caliber, half the crew would start rumors he was a point one percenter.

It was party his fault, though: he’d thought—stupidly—that with the war being over, he’d run facefirst into less self-destructive stupidity. Exhibit A. With Exhibit B—Brainstorm—with his tendencies toward self-destruction on a massive scale—standing right beside.

At least Exhibit B looked a little abashed. Chalk that up to Ratchet’s long-practiced piercing glare.

“What? He looked busy.”

“He looks offline,” Ratchet said. “Which is sort of the opposite of busy.”

“Busy being offline,” Brainstorm attempted and then gave a cough as the joke plopped between them.

“Well. I suppose I should thank you for finally getting me.” He supposed. Uncomfortably.

“I. Uh. I needed the spectroscope. He’s lying on it.”

Well, there went any thought Brainstorm was developing a conscience. Or compassion. Or anything resembling decency. “Brainstorm,” Ratchet said, carefully lifting Perceptor’s helm, shining a light into the optics. “I have a theory. Let’s test it.”

“Sure.” Science. He was all about it.

“Good. Take five steps…back. Now five more.”

Brainstorm moved backward, quickly, optics studying Ratchet’s face, as the medic bent back to work. Now it was just a waiting game.

Oops, game over. “What are we testing? What’s the theory?”

“We’re testing,” Ratchet moved to scoop up the lanky scientist, “If I want to punch you less the farther away you are.”

“Oh.” A beat. “Is it working?”

***

A soft groan interrupted the bleeps from the monitoring devices, getting Ratchet’s attention from halfway across the medibay. He closed the distance in the time it took for Perceptor’s optics to online.

“Medibay,” Perceptor said, his mouth tugging into a frown. The word was like a scientist’s results, short and economical.

“Yeah,” Ratchet said. “That kind of thing happens when you don’t, you know, refuel or recharge.” Why were the smartest ones so…dumb sometimes?

“I got busy.” A lame excuse, and the black hands fluttering on the berth showed how lame Perceptor knew it was.

“Pretty sure a scientist like you can whip up some kind of alarm to remind you.” He busied himself checking the feed lines. “Or, you know, you could ask Brainstorm.” That was a low blow, of course. But Perceptor deserved the sting.

“It won’t happen again.”

“I thought you were over this,” Ratchet said, scrolling down Perceptor’s file on his datapad. “You haven’t done this in a while.

The blue optics lowered, dimming. “…Drift.”

Ah. The word neither of them wanted to say.

“He used to—“

“Yeah, got it.” All too well. He could practically see Drift showing up at the lab, moving silently, carrying a warm cube and that smile that still looked hesitant and unsure.

Perceptor subsided, watching Ratchet work, as the medic cut down the nutrient mix in the energon, setting up the last flush of the fuel lines. It was that awkward silence where they were desperately trying not to talk about something.

A something named Drift.

“I…didn’t do anything,” Perceptor said, finally, softly. “When he left. I didn’t….” He shook his head, biting his lipplate.

“At least you weren’t one of the ones jeering and throwing things.” That had been the worst—how quickly they’d turned on him, as though they’d never really accepted Drift in the first place. He’d seen it on Drift’s face, the pain worse than being forced to leave, that the story he’d told had been accepted so easily.

“He never told me,” Perceptor said. “And I was angry, I think.” His head tilted, vaguely, as though he couldn’t recall it clearly. “That betrayal was what hurt.”

Ratchet nodded. Drift hadn’t told him, either, about Overlord, but then, he didn’t have the intimacy the pair had shared. “Maybe he thought you’d, you know, talk sense into him.” He shrugged. “Primus knows I tried.”

“Things were…unsettled, after the war. Neither of us knowing what—who—we are now.”

“We’re all trying to figure that out, Perceptor.”

“You’re the same,” Perceptor said, and Ratchet could hear a hint of envy there.

“The job’s the same,” Ratchet corrected. “Believe me, I’m as lost as anyone else.” And he felt it, now, talking about this. Relationships. Feelings. Things he couldn’t repair, couldn’t fix. It was a medic’s nightmare to be able to diagnose, but not heal.

“He probably thinks I hate him,” Perceptor said. His shoulders slumped back against the berth, mouth pulled into a sad shape.

“He probably thinks you were hurt and confused.” Everyone was. Some just acted out more than others. Perceptor never acted out. He turned it inwards, growing quieter, turning into himself again. “But punishing yourself isn’t going to fix anything.”

“I’m not--" A pause. A surrender. "I know.”

Ratchet had seen thousands of mechs in a hundred different stages of pain and discomfort and illness, but he was pretty sure Perceptor was in the top ten for ‘miserable’.  The worst thing was knowing what you were doing, and not being able to stop.  

Ratchet sighed, heavily, propping one hip onto the berth. “Look. I get it. And maybe I’m lucky because you’re right. In my job, people need me. And it gives me something to do. It always has. I’ve spent the entire war keeping my head down, in this patient or that, so I didn’t have to look up and see that…I had nothing. I meant nothing to anyone other than what these,” he flexed his hands, “could do.” This hurt, like drinking aviation fuel. He didn’t talk about himself: it felt exposed, raw, uncomfortable. But he could see the flicker in Perceptor’s optics, interest, empathy.

“And you run on fumes, because you keep telling yourself someone needs you. They need you. But you never even admit,” Ratchet said, “that, you know, you might...need...someone, too.”

Primus, he wanted to go hide, or throw something. He wasn’t good at this, at all. He didn’t know why he was trying. Probably some deep seated need to make a fool out of himself in his old age.

“Yes,” Perceptor said, his hand moving, tentative, covering one of Ratchet’s. “And I had it, at least, and I knew it was wonderful, and still.” He’d lost it, let it slip through his fingers.

So there they were, each in the middle of a different problem, as though they were sitting in bomb craters of their own blasted sparks. The moment stretched, awkward and agonizing, before Perceptor moved, sitting up on the berth, pulling Ratchet into an embrace. “I’m not him,” Perceptor murmured against Ratchet’s shoulder, “but I need someone. And you need someone.”

Like a math formula, two integers adding up to…something. Ratchet felt his spark pulse against his chassis, uneven and halting. But he didn’t say no. “Just don’t plan any more dates like this.”


End file.
